Quiet Confession

It was a quiet day. A day where the whole family does their own relaxed thing. A quiet Saturday maybe, like one of those days after returning from a long car ride. Although, I don’t know if we had returned from a long ride the previous day or not. Nonetheless, we all, Mom, Dad, my two sisters, and I, stayed confined to our quarters for most of the day.

I remember lying there writing in my journal about masculinity, and how feminism had attempted to destroy the masculine male. How masculinity had been turned into a negative thing, a problem that should be treated. Strength is only violent, unworthy and unnecessary. Feelings and emotions are what matter. And we can all agree on some basic human rights, can’t we? And then guided by our feelings for our fellow human beings, we can solve all the problems in the world. I don’t know how much of all that I was actually thinking, but you get the idea.
I knew I’d grow facial hair for the plain reason that women cannot. And that doesn’t matter, but who cares because I wasn't thinking any of that.

I was sure I would see the end of the world while I was still a kid. Well, I guess that didn’t happen. But back then, I’d been drilled with so much apocalyptic theater chatter, that I expected it nearly everyday as a boy in my parents’ home.

On that quiet day, when we were all confined to our quiet places, doing our quiet things, I fell asleep on my back with my journal across my chest and a blue pen in my hand. I turned once and switched out my lamp and changed positions. I stirred an hour later to the sound of thunder but did not wake. A storm rolled in and darkened the sky and hushed the breeze. All the elements were ripe for an encounter.

I dreamt I was deceived by a familiar old guy. In his garage, he had trick handcuffs and demonstrated for me how to escape the trick cuffs. He did it a couple times; a simple rough clockwise twist with both wrists granted freedom. He did it behind his back to prove he could. He asked if I could do it, and I did in front of him. He asked if I could do it with my hands behind my back. I turned my back to him. He switched the cuffs for real ones. I think I knew instantly, in my dream anyway, that the cuffs were changed. I remember the ratcheting rapid clicks had more meter to them, and the squeeze on my wrists was a bit more deliberate than previously. I gave them the same twist as before, but they didn’t loose. And just as I was calling out with questions and demands, he came out of my peripheral, behind to my left, wielding an aluminum bat. Because I saw him I was able to glance most of the blow to my head and shoulder. It was a fight for my life. I stumbled over debris in the garage. He walked over to me, preparing to strike. I tripped him up with my feet, and then did all that I could with my legs to put him on the ground, and I did. And then I heel beat his face till he quit struggling. Then I crawled through my handcuffed arms to have them in front of me. I used the short few links between each cuff to strangle the would-be killer, until he stopped breathing.

—And then lightning woke me.
I was alone. Not just in my room, but the whole house was vacant, because I checked in sort of a startled-awake adrenaline fit. I immediately thought I had slept through the rapture and my name had not been called. I was not chosen and I didn’t deserve it. I wanted to cry, and I may have. I tried to call a couple friends on the phone, but no one was home, which furthered my assumption that I’d been left to tribulate.

Not long later, Mom and Dad came home with a new TV. They left me sleeping because I looked so peaceful, Mom said.

I never felt foolish about my brief thoughts that day, and it makes sense in my landscape mind today--the complexity of beauty.

I am truly American

After work, Thursday night, I had a dry blue collar thirst for beer. This is an unusual occurrence for me, it happens once in a great while, I could probably count the times on both hands. It manifests after a day of hard work, physical labor, moving tons of material, with fork lifts, with your hands, clothes covered in dust. The only thing that sounds good is a cold beer, stomach nearly empty, lunch digested by energy, a fast pace. This is the kind of evening not to wait but to drink it down on the drive home.

I am truly American, I have joined the ranks of the archetypical auto worker. Except I am in the business of building trucks, tractor trucks, semis, diesel engines, fleet trucks, heavy duty trucks, military trucks; in the business of creating more need for oil, feeding the needs of war. A union worker. & a lay-off is in the near future.

So on this day, at the beginning of the shift, they have what they call a town meeting. The production line shuts down & all the swing shift workers in the plant, remove their ear plugs, take off their protective eye wear & gather in the middle of the floor. They have a stage set up & a big power point, screen. More & more gather, mainly men, it looks like a harley convention, a rock concert. “All those standing move forward,” a man yells & droves mill forward. Some sit on orange dingy’s – one man standing golf carts for moving parts quickly through the plant. A few have metal folding chairs. Every race, black, white, asian, every working age. One guy looks south american indian. I mistake his round face for a woman’s but then see the long black soul patch hanging from his lip.

Along with the smell of fresh paint & solvents in the air, there is an energy as all face the stage, waiting to hear the specifics on the lay off. It’s known that 800 were laid off in a Canadian plant. Rock music plays over the speakers until the plant manager steps up to the podium. He is the new plant manager, explains his past, working thirteen years for a competitor, now he’s settled his family in Vancouver, excited to be back in the northwest, a place that has a lot to offer. The outline appears on the screen & he addresses what will be covered, last years progress, this quarter’s progress, safety & what everyone wants to hear, the forecast for 2007. When he finally gets to the forecast he essentially says nothing that’s not already known. Due to new emission standards, truck buyers are leery of purchasing trucks with the new engines, this is industry wide, sales are predicted to fall off in the spring; but as long time auto workers know, there is always a rebound & this is counted on. & when the market comes back call backs will happen. Then he highlights things to keep in mind in a lay off, quality should not go down prior to the layoff, as the buyers now will be the same buyers later etc., there is funding for school or career development, food help from the unions. All over the floor the work force listens rather unmoved, it is massive, it is the flesh muscle behind the rigs. Some have climbed up on a military truck & listen to the speech perched on its bed. One guy sits in the drivers seat of a just completed semi, window down, listening.

I think of this mass of strength, & how it is mobilized by one thing, money – each person is here only because there is a paycheck waiting at the end of the week, the same with armies. If we paid all these men & women to kill would they? what about to plow? to remove every dandelion between here & Mexico, what if they were all paid to sit cross legged for eight hours a day, paid to pray, paid to help their fellow man? Ah, the whistle blows & it is back to work.

So I make a stop at the convenience store & search for quarters in my ashtray & find only two in a mess of nickels & pennies. I miss the cash of pizza delivery. I buy a quart of beer with a credit card. Every time I’ve hit this convenient store the parking lot has something going on, usually internally, in a strange crack addiction way, the guy in the car next to mine fidgets with something, or the slight man, leaning his strength to push open the glass door, looks emaciated by liquor or something, dressed in tattered layers, wandering off to find a hole to sleep in. Christmas music plays inside, jingle bells, ring in my head.

I sit in the car w/ my bottle opener & see a kid walking, aimed at my driver side window. Nope, I say before he’s near. I crack the window, his hair is dyed black, hanging in thin locks, baggy pocketed black pants. He starts his speech, “I’m not able to go in there & buy something” he stutters, smiles, & starts again, “I’m not able to go in there and buy something because I’m too young. Do you think you could help me out?” He is beautiful. And the times I used to do the same thing, one day, Andy & I skipping school, spent all morning, searching for a buyer, one old man, lectures us, “I used to be an alcoholic, if you’re smart, you won’t touch the stuff.” Thank you sir, & we head off to find someone else, finally locate a bum that goes into a downtown liquor store & gets a little something for himself along with our purchase. This kid is all alone, maybe planning to drink alone. Young, maybe 15 at the most, wonderfully, naively hoping for a fine escape, to cure everything. “No,” I say, “I can’t but good luck.” I drink the beer in 7 miles, getting the carbonated, elevation of slight numbness into me & feel fine for bed when I get home to the sleepy house.

Thoughts on Change

Change is often resisted on a personal level, and
just as often healthy to everyone involved.
-

Change seems to be something that must be practiced
before it can be handled well.
The practice of change is not yet taught
or instructed
in a scientific fashion.
-

We are strangers to change.
We resist change that effects ourselves,
while celebrating change that effects others
(but could indirectly benefit ourselves).
-

We come back stronger from change,
or we don't come back.
This is evolution in action.
-

An aware and fully conscious adult should be
willfully practicing change.
So that when change comes it is not strange
and threatening
but familiar.
-

Two Week Purgatory

I received a new job offer.
Accepted.
Gave notice to current employer.
Accepted.
Now I'm counting the days,
ready for new problems, and
new pressures.
Ready for,
new.